


One At A Time

by Leah



Series: The Healing Process [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Depression, M/M, Reunion Fic, Self-Harm, this is not that gr9, uh i'm sorry
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-03-04
Updated: 2013-03-18
Packaged: 2017-12-04 06:38:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,140
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/707685
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Leah/pseuds/Leah
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After Sherlock jumps off the top of a building, John is left to heal on his own time, in his own way. Until, that is, Sherlock decides to return unexpectedly.</p>
            </blockquote>





	One At A Time

It’s been one day. Twenty-four hours. One-thousand four-hundred forty minutes. That’s all the time that has passed since John watched his best friend, secret admiration, and flat mate leap off the top of a building, and land with a sickening crunch against the cobbled pavement below. It’s been one day since John watched the streets of London run red with his blood. It’s been twenty-four hours since John felt his ribs nearly crack from the sudden explosion of realization. 

John has spent one whole day observing the world around him, listening to everything that is said, seeing everything that is to be seen, but not participating. He sees people come and go, oblivious, on the street below; he hears Mrs. Hudson sobbing comforting words into his shoulder, he hears Lestrade pulling himself together in the kitchen, he hears Anderson murmuring his apologies; he feels Mrs. Hudson handing him a cup of tea, he feels Sally gingerly patting his shoulder, he feels Mycroft’s knee bumping against his as they share a silent moment together. But, mostly, he sees where Sherlock worked out the solutions to any case; he feels Sherlock’s hand against his, near the end, when they were handcuffed together; he hears Sherlock saying goodbye.

The apartment has taken on a grey color, leaving even the brilliant yellow smiley face on the wall dulled and, somehow, frowning. Mostly, John sits in his armchair with his legs pulled under himself, perching just like Sherlock used to. Lestrade brought John the coat, only slightly stained around the collar, but John can’t look at it. All he sees is it billowing behind Sherlock, doing nothing to stop his descent, but, at night, when it gets chilly, John will grab it off the back of the armchair and curl underneath it, wishing he, too, were dead with Sherlock.

It’s been one week since the sharpest pain John has ever known ripped through him, leaving an angry wound filled with unanswered questions and shrouded in a dark cloud of something between anger and sadness. Sitting in the front row beside Mycroft and Sherlock’s withering mother, John tries to avoid looking at the wooden box that, even with the lid closed, John knows is holding his best friend. It’s been one week, and John doesn’t feel any different. He’s beginning to realize that seven days won’t make a difference. Seven days, in fact, makes Sherlock’s absence even more defined. 

John lets his mind wander more often now, remembering things he had unconsciously stored; like the way Sherlock seemed to be the only person who could shuffle about in socks loudly; the way he would talk nonstop, whether John was there or not; the way, even though he never ate, Sherlock seemed to be one of the best cooks alive; the way, even if he was silent, the apartment seemed to ring with his presence. Suddenly, Mycroft is tapping John on the shoulder, snapping John back into the dim reality and asking him to say a few words to the mass of people present for Sherlock’s funeral. 

John nods, absently, feeling himself stand up and shuffle to the podium. John can’t focus on anything, all the faces in the crowd blur into a pale, flesh-colored mass. He clears his throat, struggling to find words to say, even though his head is buzzing with things he’d love to scream. “Sherlock,” John begins, his voice cracking, “was my best friend. I knew him less than a year, but he was the best friend I’ve ever had.” 

John trails off for a minute, trying to sort his thoughts and feelings for a moment before continuing. “And, I know, he taught me a lot of things. He’s flipped my world upside down, and I can only hope that I, at least slightly, shifted his. There’s not much I can say because Sherlock was a very quiet man, and now he’s gone. Everything he kept to himself will have to stay with him because, honestly, I couldn’t figure him out when he was here.” John pauses, chuckling because it’s either chuckle or cry, and he’s cried enough in the past few days. Quite a few members of the audience join him in his weak laugh. “I don’t have much else to say except Sherlock Holmes was the best thing that ever happened to me, and I loved him. Still do. I probably will for the rest of my life.”

With that, John walks his shaking limbs off the stage, past his seat, and into the bathroom. He locks himself in one of the stalls, leaning his head in his hands, trying to will away the tears that are burning his eyes, yet somehow welcoming any kind of physical sensation. After a few minutes, John sucks in a deep breath, not noticing the unpleasant smell of a public toilet, and unlocks the door. Leaning against the counter with four sinks mounted in it is Mycroft, wearing a peculiarly concerned look on his face. 

“Wonderful speech, John,” he mumbles in his typical Mycroft way, tapping his umbrella on the floor as he tries to pretend everything is normal. 

John shrugs, looking past Mycroft to focus on his reflection. He hadn’t realized how a week with nearly no sleep can make one so haggard. There are sickly purple bags under his red, bloodshot eyes, and his clothes seem to hang on him, as if they have always been two sizes too big. He tried to ignore it, but a familiar dull throb in his leg has started up again. 

“Do you need anything, John?” Mycroft asks, catching John’s attention once again. Mycroft doesn’t look much better than John. The bags under his eyes are more pink than purple, but his clothes are also taking on a baggy appearance, and he moves slower than usual, as if he’s pondering the effect of every movement.

“I need a lot of things, Mycroft.”

“Anything I can get you?”

“I think we both know the answer to that,” John answers, blandly, just wanting Mycroft to leave him alone. His wish is granted, as Mycroft pats his shoulder before turning on his heel. John braces his arms on either side of the sink, trying with all his might to ward off thoughts of Sherlock. He turns on the cold water, splashing his face with the frigid liquid, relishing the sensation of feeling once again before quickly running the sleeve of his sweater over his dripping face and pulling the door open. 

John pretends not to notice the eyes on him and the hushed whispers as he passes. He keeps his head down, grabbing his jacket off the back of a chair before heading out of the funeral home. The air bites at his nose, turning it pink as he crosses the grey parking lot towards the black car that he was told to ride in to the cemetery. Mrs. Hudson dabs at her eyes in the backseat, smiling weakly at John. 

He tries to smile back, but he’s sure it looks like a grimace.

Leaning his head against the back of the seat, John closes his eyes, praying for Sherlock to send him some kind sociopathic strength to get through the day. Mrs. Hudson silently wishes the same.

That night, John waves away Mrs. Hudson’s inquiries, telling her if he needs anything he’ll ask, before stumbling up the stairs. At the top, he leans against the door jamb into the living room, his legs feeling like jelly. He knows he can’t make it up the second flight of stairs to his own bedroom and, at the same time, shudders at the thought of another lonely night on Sherlock’s couch. Instead, he bleakly shuffles towards Sherlock’s door, toeing off his shoes before opening the door a crack. Inside, the bed is made, perfectly. It hits John that Sherlock probably spent his final minutes in 221 B pulling the comforter’s corners taut, smoothing out the wrinkles, fluffing the pillows, and, for a moment, he hesitates, not wanting to ruin this final bit of Sherlock’s brilliance before his leg shoots a fresh wave of pain into his body, and he stumbles forward, landing on the bed. 

John’s body shakes with tears that won’t come, suddenly wrapped in Sherlock’s smell; all sharply clean soap, coconut shampoo, and sheer brilliance. John realizes he doesn’t know how Sherlock managed to smell like brilliance, but he did; and his bed still does. As he buries his face into the pillow, slipping under the blanket, John drifts into an unsettled sleep. 

It’s been one month, and John can’t remember feeling anything other than the dull ache that is constantly throbbing in the lower portion of his chest. Every beat of his heart is a stabbing reminder that he’s still here, without Sherlock. He finds himself sitting in the living room most days, staring into a blank space on the wall, while everyone else seems to have moved on. No one sends dinners anymore, so John doesn’t eat; hardly anyone visits, so John is alone; No one tries to talk to him, so John is silent. 

Sometimes, John likes to wonder how long it would take everyone to notice that he were gone. Unlike Sherlock, John knows he would go quietly, in the comfort of his own apartment, with the edge of a blade biting his skin or a handful of pills blurring his vision. Sometimes, John comes so close to doing it, he’s not sure why he’s still around.

Sometimes, John goes to work, still. Sarah will give him a patient or two before sending him home once again, not realizing the apartment is half of what’s killing him; the other half being himself. As he drifts through the streets of London, John tries to find one place that will allow him to forget about Sherlock, just for a moment, but the park is filled with scarves, the coffee shop is full of cigarette smoke, and the art museum inevitably is full of works of mystery.  
The place that hurts John the most often, though, is a much more commonplace, and necessary, location; the grocery store. Even though Sherlock rarely accompanied him before, John can remember every brand Sherlock preferred, which fruits were his favorite, how much tea he could drink between trips. John will always remember the frustrated groan Sherlock could muster when John spent too long debating which kind of jam to buy, the way Sherlock would always find a way to amaze the cashier with his deductions, the way Sherlock would breathe an overly dramatic sigh of relief when the self-operating glass doors slid shut behind them. 

Now, John breathes in a troubled breath before stepping onto the freshly cleaned, checkerboard linoleum, grabbing a hand basket from beside the door. The plastic feels blurry in his hand, as do most things now. Nothing is distinct anymore; everything blends into everything else without leaving much of an impression on John. He takes in a deep breath, trying to bite down on the desire to be back at the flat. John scurries below the fluorescent lights, hurriedly grabbing the few items he needs to replenish his pantry. As he takes a moment to consider the different kinds of tea, John hears a voice behind him. 

“John?”

John closes his eyes, pinching the bridge of his nose before turning on his heel to find Lestrade, bundled up in proper winter attire, including a grey scarf that vaguely tugs at John’s heartstrings. John doesn’t say anything, simply smiles and gives a small wave, hoping Lestrade will leave. 

“How’ve you been? We’ve missed you at the station,” Lestrade continues, sidling up to John, observing the tea boxes without really seeing them. He tries to watch John out of the corner of his eye.

“Uh, I’m,” John pauses, trying to find the proper word, “still here.”

“Perhaps you should get Mrs. Hudson to cook you some dinners,” Lestrade jokes, secretly hoping John will get back on his feet soon. This is the one thing he promised Sherlock, to take care of John no matter what, and he’s letting him down. 

“Hmm,” John mumbles, picking a random box off the shelf. “Well, I’ve got to be off now, Lestrade. So nice to see you again.” 

“Wait, John,” Lestrade cries, grabbing the hem of John’s sleeve. “What’re you doing for Christmas?”  
Suddenly, John feels a new pang of sheer pain wring through his stomach. Christmas. He’s forgotten all about it. “Oh, uh, nothing,” he mumbles, shoving his hands in his pockets.

“The gang is getting together at my place Christmas Eve,” Lestrade continues, “and we’d all really love to see you again, John. Please.”

“I’ll see what I can do,” John murmurs, both of them knowing that John won’t be there.

After completing his grueling trip, John drags himself up the stairs to his flat, dumping the groceries on the floor beside the door, hoping he’ll remember to pick them up later because he is drained, as he is after any trip to the outside world. He tumbles onto the couch, wrapping Sherlock’s coat-turned-blanket around his rapidly thinning body, feeling as if something is not quite how he left it.

It’s been one year, and John thinks about Sherlock less often. When he does, it’s typically when he’s wrapped in the blankets that have long since ceased to smell of Sherlock, lying in the dark, just as John imagines his best friend did on the few occasions he decided to try sleeping. The shadows twist themselves around in John’s fragile mind, bringing back seemingly random memories that John clings to; quick meals in dingy cafes, drinking tea as some television program babbles, observing crime scenes while Sherlock deciphers them, watching Sherlock when he was too lost in thought to notice.

John curls into a ball, sometimes crying and sometimes just lying there, stuck in this reality that cuts him to the bone in every waking moment. He wishes he could, just for once, fall asleep without torturing himself. 

He also wishes he won’t wake up.

He wishes he won’t wake up and have to face the empty apartment that seems to sneer at him, echoing with the past, putting John in a fog, cut off from others because, now, “after so much time,” they say, most everyone has moved one. Mrs. Hudson suggested that John go to the therapist again. 

John mumbled a reply, unintelligible even to himself. 

He wishes Sherlock would just come back. 

He wishes with every fiber of his being, every ounce of what little strength he has left, in every moment that Sherlock would come home. He wishes that he would shuffle into the living room, only to find Sherlock pacing the floor, searching for some unthinkable answer to the latest mystery.

Eventually, John will realize he doesn’t want Sherlock to come home; he wants to go to Sherlock.

Sometimes, John forgets the aching hole in his chest, forgets the way his pulse itself is a reminder that, as long it’s going, Sherlock is nowhere to be found, forgets the way he can’t seem to be happy anymore. The grey shadow that covers his world, however, never leaves, constantly hovering over him, waiting for the perfect moment to let down a storm of anger and overwhelming sadness. 

The hole always comes back, though, ripping through him as rough as the first time, reopening the wounds on the inside of his chest, and, usually, he has to sit down, forcing himself to breathe when all he wants to do is stop. He forces himself to keep trying to reenter the real world time after time, even though he knows it will only make the ache in his chest turn sour. 

No one knows how to help him, now; just like when he came home from Afghanistan. John remembers when overwhelming oceans of pity would form in people’s eyes as they looked upon the poor, broken soldier, fresh from the front lines, where he saw people killed and killed people himself. John remembers the way the pity could quickly fade into fear, as the civilians remember their own soldier or imagine the war scene too vividly in their mind, or as they picture wildly dangerous things he may or may not have done.  
Now, John notices the pity again, as he tries to force himself to eat in a diner; pity from a passing mother, from a child who accidently knocks his cane away, from the waitress who definitely undercharges him on the meal, but the fear doesn’t come from them. John sees a fear echoing about in the eyes of all the people he was once such good friends with. 

Mrs. Hudson climbs up the stairs, fretting over the cleanliness of the apartment for hours, before dragging the footstool to John’s side, leaning her face against her hand as she quickly assesses John’s wellbeing. Without fail, at six o’clock, “Should I make you some dinner, John?” will escape from her lips; to which, John will reply with a small, “If you would like to, Mrs. Hudson,” even though he never really feels like eating anymore. 

He only does it because that’s what other people do, that’s what other people expect of him. He only changes his clothes every day because that’s what other people do, that’s what other people tell him to do. 

All he wants to do is sit in the apartment, watching bad daytime television, and wait. Wait for Sherlock, wait for death, wait for anything. He only wants to be alone, with his thoughts; the thoughts that drive him further over the edge of insanity, the thoughts that seem to rip his lungs out and leave him feeling even emptier than before. 

When left alone for too long, John is liable to forget how to feel. Everything turns numb, except for the special spot in his ribcage that keeps him tethered to reality by a thin string. Sometimes, it scares him to feel this nothingness that must be so similar to death, and, sometimes, it very nearly excites him when he thinks it’s finally his turn. But, alas, he’ll fall asleep and wake up, filled with the same nothing as before. When it lasts too long, John will tiptoe into the bathroom, afraid Mrs. Hudson will notice something, that he’ll make an unusual noise, and his whole world will once again collapse around him. 

In an empty box of allergy medicine, in the medicine cabinet, John keeps four small razor blades he broke out of a disposable razor so many months ago. They shine so bright in the cheap bathroom lighting, reflecting sharp light into his eyes as he plays with them on his palm, not caring if they slice his hand, because that’s rather the point, isn’t it? 

He has several spots where he does it.

On his thighs.

On his stomach.

On his chest.

These places have become marked and riddled with small white scars, raised above the tannish layer of healthy skin, and the number of them only multiplies every day, as he digs the corner of the blade into his tender flesh, hissing at the intensity of the stinging before relaxing into it, liking the way the warm blood pulses out of the wound, the way the sting fades but doesn’t quite go away, suddenly filling his body with a new sensation. 

It’s John’s way of relaxing, of letting go of the pain and the anger. The bite of the razor grounds him, gives his universe a center to revolve around, now that Sherlock has been plucked out of his place. He quickly wipes the blood off his chest with a rag before rinsing the rag in cold water, as he tries to hide the evidence from Mrs. Hudson.  
He’s kept this as his own dirty little secret, knowing no one else will understand how the pain is actually a pleasure, how the scars are a sign of his battle, how the razor is the only thing keeping him alive.

It’s been three years, exactly, and John has taken to visiting the shiny black gravestone every Saturday, filling Sherlock in on all the pointless details he wouldn’t want to know, even if he were alive. But he isn’t. So, John can say whatever he damn well pleases. 

“Hey again, Sherlock. You tired of me yet?” he jokes to himself, knowing how ridiculous he sounds and looks, with his legs crossed in front of the memorial, tracing the words and picking out bits of moss. “I’m not tired of you. I still miss you, Sherlock. I’ll always miss you.”

John sighs, putting his head in his hands as a tear wells up in his eyes. Usually, he doesn’t cry anymore. He’s getting better, little by little, as the hole in his chest closes ever so slightly with each passing day. It still hurts, and the wounds are still tender, but he can manage a conversation with Sherlock just fine. Usually. 

Nowadays, he sleeps better, dreaming of a world where Sherlock didn’t jump off the building and, instead, continued solving crimes with John. The shadows typically remain shadows, instead of twisting themselves into demented memories that only haunts him if he thinks too hard about them. 

He still doesn’t feel much. Nothing makes him laugh like Sherlock did, and everyone knows it; everyone knows the John from before won’t be coming back, but this John is steadily getting better, even if his senses are still a little numb.  
His razors are still in the box, ready for him when he gets home from work every day. 

He eats now, voluntarily preparing himself breakfast, usually skipping lunch, and occasionally making a dinner. No one minds, as long as some food is getting into him, as long as he isn’t actively self-destructing anymore.  
John begins speaking again, patting the stone in a loving sort of way.

“Sherlock, there are so many things I never told you. Well, I did tell you, but you never listened, did you? You always wanted to be the leader, and I just let you. Even when you led yourself right off a building.”

“It still hurts, Sherlock. There’s no way around it. And, today, it hurts especially worse. I feel like I can’t breathe, and I’m afraid of myself today, Sherlock. I’m not sure I’ll be able to control myself.”

John pauses for a moment, letting the tears run down his cheeks, before murmuring a soft goodbye and shuffling towards the busy road. 

After his daily cuttings, John feels the exhaustion sweep through him. He’s spent too much time today thinking about Sherlock, thinking about the past three years without, thinking about the way the apartment is still too empty. He wipes up the blood, leaving his shirt discarded on the bathroom floor, before shuffling his socked feet into the living room, pausing at the window for a moment as the people pass below. 

John leans his head against the cool glass, taking a deep breath as he tries to tamp down the sudden wave of well-played memories. 

“John.”

John puts his hands to his ears in an effort to block out the suddenly vivid sound of Sherlock’s voice. 

“Please, John, turn around.”

Suddenly, John realizes the voice isn’t in his mind this time, as he spins on his heel to find a well-pressed Sherlock standing before him. Sherlock fiddles with a wayward curl as he observes John from the distance, taking special note of the scars on his chest and watching as the wheels in John’s head turn, clicking into place one at a time.

“Sherlock?”

John can’t believe it. He closes his eyes, taking a deep breath, as he realizes he hasn’t been getting better at all. Clearly, he’s hallucinati-

Sherlock is still there when John’s eyelids snap open once again. 

The hole in John’s chest throbs, with a sudden surge of realization. Sherlock is here. A huge surge of childlike glee  
bursts, making his chest ache in a much better way than he has grown accustom to.

John can feel the grin spreading across his face, as he sees fireworks exploding in his mind, before the sparks fizzle out, and a new kind of anger slowly seeps into the surge of happiness. 

“I watched you die, Sherlock, but here you are!” John yells, closing the distance between them, clenching his fist as he does. “But where the hell were you for the past three fucking years!?” John’s voice breaks as he raises his fist.

Sherlock doesn’t duck or flinch at all. He figured this would happen, as John’s knuckles split against his cheekbone, knocking Sherlock’s lanky frame to the ground in one motion. John straddles Sherlock’s hips, raising his fist and bringing it down on Sherlock’s cheek again and again, as he eventually loses count and the energy required to punch his so-called friend in the face. 

John suddenly realizes tears are streaming down his face, and he’s sobbing out Sherlock’s name in a broken voice, letting his fists slow until he’s only lightly hitting them against Sherlock’s chest. Sherlock reaches up; rubbing John’s back as he makes a shushing noise, almost welcoming it when John rolls to the side, curling into a ball on his side. Sherlock wraps his arms around John’s small waist, breathing in the familiar smell of John for the first time in three years. 

John can’t help the flood of words flowing out of his mouth, into that damn scarf Sherlock seems to be wearing constantly, as things about love and pain and hate slip out of his lips. Sherlock simply accepts them, running his hands through John’s hair. 

After a while, both of them are silent, and John’s chest stops shaking from the effort of crying. 

John sits up, pushing Sherlock away as he scoots in the opposite direction. 

“John, I-” Sherlock tries to start, but John silences him with a motion of his hand. 

“Don’t think I’m not pissed at you,” John hisses, “because I am. Royally, so. Don’t think that you just showing up is going to fix everything.”

“I don’t expect it to, John,” Sherlock whispers, looking at his hands. “I just couldn’t stay away any longer. I had to actually talk to you again,” he pauses for a moment. “I’m so sorry, John.”

“Shut the fuck up, Sherlock,” John grumbles, standing up and shuffling into the kitchen, putting on the tea kettle. He hears Sherlock follow him, but ignores his presence.

A few tense moments pass before Sherlock clears his throat, trying to catch John’s attention again. John rolls his eyes, letting out an exasperated sigh, as he feels sudden storms of clashing emotion warring in his mind, half wanting to kick Sherlock out while the other half desperately needs to pull Sherlock close and just feel him. 

“I can’t talk to you right now,” he mumbles, grabbing his warm mug by the handle before skirting past Sherlock, hardly looking at him. “I don’t want you to go, but I can’t,” he adds on before skipping up the stairs, to his unused bedroom. 

He knows Mrs. Hudson kept it clean and fresh for him.

John wonders if Mrs. Hudson knows about Sherlock.

He decides she probably doesn’t, as he discards his cup of tea on the nightstand and climbs into his unfamiliar bed and forces himself into an uneasy sleep. 

John’s eyes flutter open to late-night moonlight filtering through his curtains, staring at the oddly foreign ceiling above him for a moment before he remembers. He feels his chest heave as he suddenly needs to see if Sherlock is still downstairs or not. 

As he stumbles down the stairs, letting his fingers trail against the bumpy walls, he hopes with his whole being that Sherlock will be sitting on the couch, quietly plucking his violin. But, as he rounds the door jamb, he feels his stomach sink. Sherlock is nowhere to be seen.

John clears his throat, cursing himself. He should’ve known better than to run away, letting out a sigh as he makes his way through the apartment, almost by memory. However, he’s taken by surprise at the small grunt from the bed when he pushes the door open. 

“Sherlock?” John gasps, nearly falling into the bed when he finally sees Sherlock’s tall frame curled under the covers, desperately trying to find sleep. 

“John,” Sherlock almost sobs, clutching at John’s skin, trying to pull him closer. John allows himself to be manhandled until Sherlock’s head is tucked neatly under his chin, his bear skin rubbing against Sherlock’s old cotton t-shirt.  
In the three years he’d slept in this room, it had never occurred to John that Sherlock’s clothes were still there. John buries his nose into Sherlock’s dark hair, relishing the familiar smell that had seemed to fade in his mind, as he tries to forget all the hurt and fear and anger that has chased him for the past three years because Sherlock is here. 

He’s here, and his arms are still gangly, his legs are still too long, his elbows are still sharp. John runs his fingers under Sherlock’s shirt, trying to soothe away the shaking as Sherlock sobs, trailing tears down the scars on John’s chest. Eventually, Sherlock calms down and tries to pull away, but John tightens his hold on his companion.  
“I’ve waited too long for this, Sherlock,” he murmurs into Sherlock’s hair, trying his best to hold back the tears that are desperately fighting their way to the surface. Sherlock mumbles an incoherent agreement, letting his fingers dance over John’s shoulder, stuttering at the neat rows of puckered scars, and the three fresh cuts from tonight. 

“John,” Sherlock whispers, his heart breaking as he goes against his better judgment, leaning forward and pressing a soft kiss to the wounds. He replaces his lips with his fingers once again, running the pads of his fingers over the raised flesh gently.

“Sherlock, it’s okay,” John tries to quiet Sherlock’s worries, but Sherlock leans back and shushes him with a look.

“No, it’s not, John,” Sherlock answers, seriously. “It’s not okay. I did this. I didn’t want this, John. I didn’t want to leave  
you, but I had to, and you hurt so badly, but I never imagined it would come to this. John, I’m so sorry.”  
Sherlock finishes, and John feels a sudden wave of embarrassment rush over him. He tries to hide his face against Sherlock’s hair again, but Sherlock catches his chin, tilting it down slightly, before pressing his lips against John’s. 

John feels himself melt, as he returns the kiss wholeheartedly, forgetting for the moment about his anger, about his cutting, about his fear that Sherlock will leave, and just lets himself get lost in Sherlock’s lips moving under his. 

He’ll deal with the other things later, one at a time.


End file.
